What People Do
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Following on from the end of The Great Game. After Sherlock returns to Baker Street he and John quickly find themselves involved in a case with an unexplained death.
1. What people do

The cab pulled in. John stared briefly at the familiar street for a second before opening the door. Despite his cane he offered a hand to Mrs Hudson because he is always, always a gentleman. He paid the cabbie and smiled, wondering if he was a good cabbie. His thoughts strayed to Sherlock and he felt a pang.

He limped through the open door and to find Mrs Hudson waiting for him in the hallway.

"John, I have to talk to you now, or it will just get harder and harder..."

He watched her wringing her hands. It didn't take a genius to work out she was anxious about something. He'd had to endure a number of these little chats of late. Concerned friends watching him closely ready to offer him kindly meant advice. Sarah had cornered him already; even Harry had said her piece at the hospital. The funeral had been thankfully short and low-key but he'd still had to skirt out to avoid Molly's huge, distressed eyes. But he felt sorry for Mrs Hudson, so he smiled gently at her.

"It's about the rent..." she started

Relief. "Mrs Hudson, it's fine. I know Sherlock had a friend's rate but I don't expect that. I've taken a full time job and I'll be able to make payments on my own." He hoped so anyway. The flat was huge and this was a zone 1 address and clearly well beyond his income, but he'd already decided to let the dust settle before finding somewhere else.

"Oh, that's nice dear! I'm sure seeing Sarah every day will be a great comfort to you."

"Actually no, I'll be back at Bart's. I've taken something in their A&E. I think I'm more suited to it."

"Oh!" She was surprised but thankfully didn't pursue it. "Anyway, I was going to say you don't have to worry. Sherlock's brother, Michael"

"Mycroft."

"Yes, Mycroft, He's paid six month's rent in advance."

"Oh God! He's not moving in is he?"

"Oh no, dear, but he'd like store Sherlock's things here for a while."

"Why?"

"He didn't say. I'd have thought storage would be cheaper but he's given me 6 month's rent. Maybe he just doesn't want the hassle of going through it all. Poor man."

John frowned. 'Poor man' was not a term he could easily connect to Mycroft. Still, he'd disappeared as soon as possible after the service so perhaps he was feeling an emotion. Stranger things have happened. John realised Mrs Hudson was staring at him.

"I'll make you a cup of tea, shall I?"

"Thank you."

"Just this once, Dear. It's been a hard day for you."

He walked upstairs. He saw Sherlock waiting for him at the top with a look of nervous expectation on his face, ready to open the door with a flourish. He'd been limping then too. John blinked and the vision passed. Another pang.

He opened the door for himself this time. The flat was quiet. Nothing new there; it was often quiet. The flat was calm though and the calm felt odd. The quiet used to have an intense property; Sherlock reading, Sherlock thinking, Sherlock sulking. Always the threat of an explosion, both real and figurative.

Now it was calm. No Sherlock at all.

Another pang

This was ridiculous. He'd lost colleagues before; he knew what he had to do. He limped into the kitchen to start packing up Sherlock's things.

Shoelaces, trainers needed to go back into the evidence bag and then back to the Yard.

The head in the fridge would have to go back to the morgue. In fact he'd noticed yesterday that it really should have gone back a while ago. How would he get it back there? Come to that, how had Sherlock brought it here in the first place?

He left the fridge unopened and turned to the microscope on the counter. It was a good piece of kit. His eyes fell upon a sticker 'Property of St. Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital'. How the Hell did Sherlock steal a microscope? He sighed. He'd take it back when he took back the head. Maybe that would make the whole thing feel more legitimate. Probably not though.

He wandered back to the sitting room. There was tea and biscuits on the table. Mrs Hudson clearly hadn't wanted to disturb him.

There were papers everywhere. They'd need sorting but he couldn't be bothered right now.

He slumped into the armchair and pulled the Union Jack cushion from underneath him. He'd always hated cushions; he could never get them quite right. There was one cushion in the whole flat and it was always on his chair. He stared at it. It was an odd thing for Sherlock to have really. He couldn't think of anyone with less regard for Queen and Country. It wasn't that he had been anti-royal; as far as John knew he had no political opinions at all. He hadn't seen the point.

Maybe the cushion had been a gift from a friend. No; Sherlock didn't have any friends; just enemies. Mycroft then. No; he'd only give a gift if he thought it would be really annoying. A cushion would be too benign.

It seemed too new to have come with the second hand armchair.

Realisation dawned and he suddenly found a sob stuck in his throat. The cushion had been a gift for him. Sherlock had bought it for the crippled ex-army doctor he was going to share a flat with. He'd wanted him to be comfortable. He'd wanted him to feel at home.

He closed his eyes and let the sadness take him away for a little while.


	2. The return

Grey months passed. Technically it was supposed to be summer but the long days were drab and uninteresting. Dull. Boring.

A cruel part of John's mind reminded him that the dullness was a part of him, John Watson, and not the fault of the weather at all.

He knew that Mrs Hudson was worried about him. She kept making hints that he should find someone new but he couldn't work out whether she was talking about replacing Sherlock or Sarah. The latter had tried. She'd expressed concern as a doctor that he was heading towards clinical depression but he insisted he was fine. Eventually she had stopped calling. He'd seen her a couple of weeks ago in a cafe with someone new. He hadn't even felt an ounce of regret.

He knew he wasn't depressed. Certainly he showed none of the physical signs and he was enough of a medic to keep a check. He went to work, which he found dull, he talked to dull people and he came back to the house, where he was able to feel comfortable. He'd started reading through Sherlock's library which was certainly diverting. He frequently ate with Mrs Hudson, certainly whenever his shifts allowed and he found he'd grown quite fond of her. He'd briefly entertained the idea of learning to play the violin, but at the moment that felt almost irreverent.

It did bother him; how long it seemed to be taking to 'forget' Sherlock. He'd lost people before. His parents had died far younger than most. There were colleagues in Afghanistan. There was the young cardiologist at Bart's who'd caused him join up and escape London in the first place. He'd thought of escaping Baker Street but found something holding him back. Laziness for the most part. He knew he didn't forget any of these people in reality, but he'd at least been able to continue living in a world where they weren't any more.

Without Sherlock, he couldn't even walk without a stick.

It made him angry. Well, at least that was as step up from feeling bored. It was only recently that he'd realised how debilitating Sherlock's boredom was.

He limped now as he wandered back from the Tube station after his shift. The same over-worried parents, the same teenage drunks. He'd patched them all up and sent them on. He fumbled now with the lock and dropped his key on the floor. He swore mildly, then tried again and finally got in the house. Up the twenty-one steps and into his sitting room.

"Ah! You're finally back!"

It was Sherlock.

John gasped and dropped his keys again. The force of the shock made him stagger backwards into the door-frame. The apparition stood up. It certainly looked like Sherlock. It even had the same expression of arrogant triumph that John had so often wished to wipe off his face before he'd died.

_He'd died!_ John stood there and stared open mouthed.

"John?" The thing looked concerned now. He took a step forward and for a moment, that was all John knew. He had the ludicrous thought, as the grey mist descended, of "Oh good; I'm fainting!" before he did just that.

* * *

When he came round, he noted that some kindly spectre had elevated his legs. So ghostly Sherlock knew basic first aid, did he? Interesting, thought John.

There he was again, kneeling by his side and looking concerned. The hand gripping John's shoulder certainly felt real. Painfully real, in fact.

"John, are you all right?"

John stared.

"John? Should I call an ambulance? Did you hit your head?"

John shook him off.

"No. No I'm fine. Just help me up." He leant on the offered arm and got to his feet. He rubbed his face with his hands. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was still there.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

The tall man stared back at him with a look of anticipation on his face.

"I'm not dead, John." He finally said, sounding surprised that such an obvious fact should need pointing out.

John felt four months worth of frustration lift from his shoulders and he gibbered slightly.

Then he swung his fist through a marvellous arc and punched Sherlock hard on his perfect left cheekbone.


	3. He did what?

"Ow!", Sherlock staggered backwards, but he didn't try to defend himself. "What was that for?"

John's brain as still whirling and he found himself completely unable to speak.

"You're not going to faint again are you?"

"No!" John snapped.

"Good. I thought it was a little over-the-top."

"You were... You _pretended_ to be dead!"

"Yes."

"You DIED!" John was only vaguely aware that he was shouting. Sherlock was irritatingly calm.

"No. Sorry; I thought we'd just established that I didn't."

"You _pretended _to be _dead_!"

"Yes. John, are you sure you didn't hit your head?"

"You! You PRETENDED to be DEAD!"

"John, seriously, are we going to be stuck on this for much longer?"

"Nggyhh!" John stormed up to him, fist clenched, and Sherlock tensed in preparation. He didn't hit him though. Instead he threw his hands in the air, stormed over to the sofa and sat down. Sherlock looked at him nervously, then went to sit down next to him. John didn't look at him, but reached out for his wrist to find his pulse. Sherlock watched, but didn't say anything about it.

After a pause, he cleared his throat. "I really didn't think you'd mourn for me."

"You didn't think I'd mourn?" John looked at him angrily. "You were my friend. You died. What did you think I was going to do?"

"I don't know. Move on I suppose. The mourning was a surprise. We'd only known each other a couple of months and let's face it; I am quite annoying."

"Yes but you're still my friend. A few months, yes, but quite a lot happened during that time. Did you really think I could just turn off my emotion like it has an off switch?"

"Can't you?"

"No, Sherlock! No I can't. I'm not you and for your information I don't want to be you. I like feeling things; I like caring for people, even if they're really annoying."

"I said 'quite', not 'really'."

John glared and turned away. Sherlock blinked.

"You're angry with me."

"You pretended to be dead! Of course I'm angry!"

"It would seem I underestimated your strength of feeling about this."

"You think?"

"Mycroft said you get attached quickly. I thought he was wrong."

"No! No I don't, Sherlock. I'm just faster than the tectonic-plate-shift speed you seem to manage."

"the what?"

"Tectonic... don't worry, it's probably not 'important'.

They both stared at the fireplace for a while.

"You pretended to be dead!" John shouted suddenly.

"Hell!" Sherlock shouted back. " John, just so I can plan, how long are you going to be stuck on this?"

"You PRETENDED to be DEAD!"

"YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO MOURN!"

"Really? So what would you have done if I'd have died at the pool instead of you?"

"I didn't die, but if you had have done and there was nothing I could have done to change that, I'd have moved on. There's no point living in the past."

"Right." John shut his eyes. He remembered the look on Sherlock's face when he'd realised he was Moriarty's next 'voice'. He'd' looked angry. Very angry. But more than that, he'd looked hurt. Like a child who had had his only toy taken away from him. He would have mourned, John knew.

"So why did you come back?" he finally asked.

"I had to." He looked mildly embarrassed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, originally the plan had was for me to stay quiet and 'dead' for six months and then reassess. The thing is, we didn't know whether Moriarty had made it out alive. We knew there were bodies, but not how many there should be; whether there was anyone missing. If he was alive, he'd clearly try to kill me again. We figured that if I was dead, it would buy me some time to establish whether he'd been killed in the explosion or not."

"We?"

"Yes, it was Mycroft's plan. Really you should go to his flat and punch him in the face. I'd pay for the cab."

"Sorry about that, by the way."

"It's fine. Didn't hurt much at all."

"Yeah, well I pulled it a bit. So is he dead then? Moriarty?"

"We don't know."

"Then why are you here?"

Sherlock turned to give him his sad look. "Mycroft threw me out. I accidentally set fire to his kitchen."

"Oh."

"Yes. And part of his lounge."

"Mmm" John turned away but Sherlock could tell he was laughing. He began to relax a little.

"Well, doctor, if you're satisfied that I am in fact alive, could I please have my hand back."

John looked down at his hand, still taking Sherlock's pulse. He dropped the wrist, stretched and stomped tiredly towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded.

"Bed. I've got an early shift tomorrow."

"Bart's?"

"Yes. Wait! What? Have you been spying on me?"

"No! Well, yes. To be honest I'm surprised you didn't notice. I was in the same room with you twice."

John sighed and rubbed his face again. "Well I'm sorry to disappoint you with my lack of observation skills. Like I said; I'm not like you." He turned away.

"John!"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"That I'm not like you?"

"No, I'm sorry for... you know, the other thing."

"What? When you pretended to be dead? That thing?"

"Mm."

Another sigh. "There's some curry in the fridge if you're hungry. I'll see you in the morning. Don't take all the milk."


	4. Jobs

John Watson woke up feeling the same way he had for the past four months. He felt fine. The next moment he felt the crushing sadness that immediately followed 'fine' as reality hit him and he remembered Sherlock was dead. Then, oddly, that stopped as another new reality seeped in; Sherlock was alive!

Was he? He couldn't be. But he was, wasn't he?

Confused, he launched himself out of bed to go and check.

There was a note taped to Sherlock's bedroom door. In his neat copperplate script it read:

'I'm still alive.'

Beneath this, and underlined several times, were the words:

'I'M NOT DEAD!'

Then at the bottom:

'Don't wake me up. I saved you some milk.'

* * *

In the kitchen, John found the fridge devoid of everything apart from a milk bottle containing just enough milk for his morning tea. There was an apple on the counter next to his regimental mug. John smiled.

He scrawled a quick not to Mrs Hudson informing her of Sherlock's non-dead state, advising her not to be shocked, and letting her know that the detective had asked her to wake him at 8.30. He shoved it under her door.

He was half way to the tube station when he realised he had forgotten his cane.

* * *

The day started the way all early shifts did. The night shift workers looking sleepy and longing for breakfast, giving half sentence descriptions of the people in each bay. John didn't need more; it was all fairly standard. Two drunks, one homeless (drunk) and one cut up from a knife fight (drunk). They'd be woken up shortly, discharged and asked to leave. The knife fight had given a police statement in the early hours. The slight anomaly was the young mother admitted with mild shock from tonsillitis. She was being rehydrated before discharge too. Everyone else had either left already or been admitted to Obs.

The night shift slumped out of the door like zombies, blinking in the sunlight.

He looked at the emptying ward and though that it looked like a nice quiet shift for him. He immediately cursed himself for having cursed himself.

* * *

Three ambulances all at once. In the first, two children; one a baby of 14 months who seemed healthy enough and her six year old sister. She was clutching a soft toy to her chest and appeared to be in a catatonic state. There were police and social workers and someone who appeared to be an Au Pair, shocked and crying.

The next two ambulances both contained a paramedic, a policeman and an adult male experiencing some kind of mania. One was quiet but crying and continually clawing at his face. He needed sedating and cleaning up. The other was aggressive and angry; it took two policemen and a paramedic to get him through the door. He needed sedating and sectioning.

John got to work.

A couple of hours later and calm was beginning to return. Well, as calm as a Central London A&E could ever get. John was just heading out to a well-earned break when he bumped first into a gurney carrying a body-bag (and he assumed, a body), and then into Inspector Lestrade.

"John Watson!" he exclaimed. He appeared to be pleased to see him. There were a few more stress lines and more grey hair than last time he'd seen him though. John also noted he'd bitten his fingernails down to the quick.

"Inspector! What are you doing here? I hope you're not injured!"

"No, I'm fine. I'm here with that," he said, motioning to the body. "I don't suppose you were on duty this morning were you? Good, I could use some information about her family."

"The children admitted earlier?"

"Yeah, and the husband and brother."

"Jesus! All from the same house?"

"It's an odd one. I can tell you that for nothing."

"Excellent!" a voice cut in; "I like the odd ones the best."

Sherlock smiled as Lestrade staggered backwards into a fire extinguisher.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you; he's alive." John muttered.

"Are you going to faint too?" Sherlock asked. "That seems to be the favoured reaction."

Fortunately for Lestrade, John had already noted his paling face and short breaths. He shoved him bodily into a waiting room chair and pushed his head down towards his knees.

"Deep breaths." He murmured, soothingly.

A minute or so later Lestrade shoved him off.

"What the Hell?" he shouted at Sherlock.

John told him to calm down but he seemed to be fighting a losing battle so he decamped them all to the cafeteria.

* * *

Sherlock showed absolutely no intention of explaining anything to Lestrade, instead choosing to whine to John that he'd spoiled his big reveal to Mrs Hudson. Lestrade seemed to have got stuck on the fact that Sherlock was not dead, and wondering if he could arrest him for that.

Somehow refraining from banging their heads together, John passed a well-sugared tea to Lestrade and asked him what he needed regarding the Tregennis family.

The story was certainly odd. The child-minder had arrived at the house at 8.00 as usual, ready to take the older child to school and to take care of the baby. On entering the house, she had found the three adults in the front room; both men were in some kind of seizure and the woman was dead.

"She knew she was dead straight away?" Sherlock demanded. "She didn't first assume she was asleep or something?"

Lestrade gave him an uncertain look as if he still felt he wasn't quite there. "No, she said she was quite sure. The mothers eyes were open, but she said she wasn't moving, she said looked frozen in terror." The other two gave each other a look. "Yeah, I thought it was hyperbole too, but then I saw her."

The child-minder had heard the baby crying so had run upstairs. She'd then taken the baby, Martha, to check on the older child, Sophie. Sophie had been frozen too, like the mother, but when the ambulance service arrived, they'd found her alive.

"But the mother was definitely dead?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yes; she's dead." Lestrade affirmed. "Time of death is pending but she was definitely dead when the ambulance arrived." He looked at John. "Is there any medical explanation for it? The four of them being in that state?"

"It's hard to say; the adults had rapid heart-rates and clear signs of some psychosis or other. If it was just one of them I'd guess a drug overdose, or a bad batch of something they'd taken. But all three adults? You'd expect one to notice what was happening."

"They could have taken something together?" Lestrade suggested.

"Unlikely" said Sherlock, staring at the tabletop. "Three people taking something recreational that they react to simultaneously; either they'd take it one after the other, or their systems react at different times. It would be very hard to coordinate. And in this case, we're talking about both parents of two young children who were in the house at the time, and before they expected to go to work."

"Besides, there's the child who had the same reaction." Put in John.

"Yes, what can you tell me about her?" Lestarde asked. "Might she have seen something?"

"Not much; she was dealt with by paediatrics. I'll find out what I can medically though. As to what she might have seen, that will come via police and social services."

"No, the child's not important." Sherlock cut in. The other two glared at him.

"We'll need to talk with the child-minder of course, but first we need to go to the house. Who's at the scene?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock winced. "Oh well, it is what it is. Come along John!"

He leapt up and with a swish of his coat charged away.

"Sherlock!" John called after him.

"What now?"

"I'm at work, I can't come with you now."

"But it's Anderson" Sherlock whined. "I don't want to go on my own!"

"I'm at work, Sherlock. Me, this hospital, the world – they don't revolve around you!"

Sherlock looked slightly, but only slightly shame-faced.

John sighed. "Look, the mother's here isn't she? In the morgue. Why don't you start there and I'll join you later."

"Wait a minute!" Lestrade cut in, standing up. "This is my case!". The other two stared at him for a moment, until he sat back down again. "Fine." He agreed and settled back down with his tea.

* * *

Ten minutes later, back in the A&E, John got a message on his pager.

'Come to morgue. Molly fainted. SH.'


	5. Waiting

After the noise and bustle of the A&E, John couldn't help but find the quiet calm of the morgue cool and relaxing. He'd occasionally taken breaks down here to chat to Molly. He did on the days when he felt up to hearing about her odd love/hate confusion about Sherlock anyway. She'd told him she felt the same. She couldn't stand the unpredictable nature of most of the other departments; his own particularly. She liked that her 'clients', as she called them, started dead and stayed that way.

Usually.

He found her sat on the floor leaning against a locker staring wide-eyed at Sherlock. He was peering at the body on the examining table as if Molly had ceased to exist as soon as she'd let him in. In Sherlock's mind, clear and focused on the new problem, she sort of had.

John gathered her up, soothing and calming as he did so.

"It was a mix up, Molly. There was a lot of confusion after the explosion. It's OK; he's real."

"No! It couldn't have been! I examined the body myself! It was him!"

"No, it wasn't. But look, in the long term it's helped enormously that you and I thought so. Sherlock was in danger. This helped."

Molly stared at him. "He knew, didn't he? He knew that we all thought he was dead! What we were all feeling!"

John thought about that. "The first bit, yes. The second, probably not, no."

She didn't seem to hear him but walked calmly over to Sherlock. "You pretended to be dead!" Sherlock raised his eyes to look at her. "That was a really horrible thing to do!" She turned and rushed out. Sherlock watched her go with a slight frown.

John briefly entertained the idea of following her. On one hand, he knew it was the right thing to do. On the other hand, he really didn't want to.

"What do you make of this?" Sherlock asked him. He grabbed a pair of gloves from a box on the wall and wandered over to the table.

What he saw was quite extraordinary. The woman's face was contorted and twisted. Here eyes were wide open and glassy, as was her mouth. She looked exactly if she'd been extinguished mid scream.

"That's… really strange." John concluded. He earned a stern look from Sherlock.

"It's throughout her body."

Sure enough her fingers were splayed and oddly twisted, her legs stretched and taut. They hadn't been able to lay her completely flat on the table. John picked up Molly's notes and scanned through them.

"Time of death was around 6:30AM. Rigor mortis doesn't work like this; it doesn't set in that quickly; you don't get frozen instantly."

"Mm."

"It's really… weird."

Sherlock stopped his examination and glared at him again.

"Well it is!" John protested.

Sherlock sat down on a stool. "She was being abused."

John looked again. Now it had been mentioned he could see there were clear signs. Bruises mostly, of various ages. Nothing individual that would warrant medical attention but she was being hit regularly.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to her neck.

"I know what that is." John said and walking behind him he pushed a knuckle into the large vertebrae at the base of Sherlock's neck.

"Ow!" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Yeah, neat little trick Harry used to play on me when we were kids. Didn't used to bruise though, that would have hurt."

Sherlock mapped his hand across some finger marks on her upper arm. "A man did this. I'd say he's about 6 foot."

"Not the husband then; he was shorter. The brother? Do you think he killed her?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "Now, John; what have I told you about theorising without all the facts?"

John stood up. "Right, I've got to go back upstairs."

"Is there a toxicology report?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. You'd have to ask the pathologist."

They both stared at the door. John looked back to his friend. "Yeah; good luck with that!" He grinned at him and left.

* * *

John was midway through examining a scalp wound on a boy when the curtain was suddenly pulled back and Sherlock bounded up to him.

"I need your staff pass."

"You need to wait outside!"

Sherlock glanced at the boy. "Did you fall off your bike?" he asked, sounding sympathetic.

The boy nodded.

"Liar! You were on a building site. There's course builder's sand on your trainers. Those rips in your jacket sleeve; see how it's in two separate rips? That's from barbed wire. There's anti-climb paint on your right cuff and on your left inside ankle." He looked at the mother. "Really; you should keep a better track on your offspring. Especially if you don't want this one to end up in Juvenile Court too!"

"Get out!" John roared at him.

He met him at the admissions desk 10 minutes later.

"I need to borrow your staff pass." Sherlock told him again. "They wouldn't let me into paediatrics. They threatened to call security."

"I wish they had have done." John muttered. "That Mum is now putting in a complaint of a racist attack."

"Racist?" Sherlock was flabbergasted.

"She says you've made an assumption about her children based on the colour of her skin. The court thing."

"It wasn't an assumption! Her race had nothing to do with it! Her bag was open and I saw the letter!" He shook his head angrily. "I don't have time for this. Please; your pass."

"No."

"What? I can't get into paediatrics without it."

"No, they're not well known for letting strange men in long coats have open access to the children."

Sherlock looked down, utterly confused. "My _coat?_ What's my coat got to do with this; are you drunk?"

"Never mind. You'll have to wait and I'll come up with you later."

"For God's sake, John; just give me your pass. I'll give it back when I'm finished!"

"No; I'm a doctor and giving you my pass would be unethical."

"What?" Sherlock gaped. "But it's _me!"_

"Yes and it's me, and I'm saying no! You can wait in the waiting room, or go away."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, but John squared up to him. Sherlock blinked first, walked over to a corner chair in the waiting room and sat down, legs stretched out, staring into space.

John sighed thinking it was funny how 24 hours ago he'd thought Sherlock was dead and he'd been sad and now he was alive and he wanted to kill him.

* * *

Four o'clock came and he finished his final pieces of paperwork, shoved the files on the shelf behind him and stretched. Sherlock was still there. Waiting. Fearing retribution, John went over and sat down beside him.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Sherlock said softly.

John was surprised. He looked up at the ward. It was a mixture of dull grey, bright white and faded blue. Fluorescent lights and ceiling tiles completed the garish and dated look.

"Not conventionally; no."

"Not the building, John! Look beyond that; look at the people. Each of them has their own story, their own part to play in the whole. Each one of them…"

"Is an idiot?"

Sherlock glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that; you're the one who's supposed to be a sociopath."

"Well, four months trapped with just Mycroft has given me a new perspective on my fellow man."

"Really?"

"Really." He grinned. "Now let's go. You've wasted enough of your time on these drones." He leapt up and stormed off.

"Right." John followed.


	6. Information

_I feel the need to apologise for poor research; St Bart's does not have a Psychiatric ward from what I can tell from their website. Still, it suits my story so it's staying. I also should point out that I don't own any of the characters and part of the plot is based (very loosely) on an ACD short story.  
_

_I have really appreciated the reviews; thank you all so much for taking the time to do that. It makes my day to read them!_

* * *

The two men exited the lift on the 3rd floor and strode along the corridor in silence. John swiped through the double doors and suddenly they were in a world of sound and colour.

John made his way towards the nurses station, Sherlock following in his wake, deftly stepping over toy trains and jigsaw puzzles.

"Hi Laura." John greeted one of the nurses.

"Oh, Hi John! What brings you here?"

"Professional curiosity mostly; there were some kids admitted here earlier today. I treated their Dad and I wanted to check up on them."

"Aw, lovely you!" she said and turned behind her to find the file. John smiled sheepishly feeling sure that Sherlock was rolling his eyes behind him. He started reading through the notes.

"Hey, aren't you that man from earlier?" Laura suddenly asked. "I told you to clear off!" Her hand reached for the phone.

"It's OK Laura, he's a friend of mine" John reassured her. "He seems scary but he's actually harmless." Sort of, he added to himself.

"Hello!" Sherlock gave what he considered to be his best smile. Feeling something more was needed he added "Don't worry; my coat is perfectly clean."

John stared at the wall wondering how to follow that. Deciding he couldn't he just shook his head slightly and handed back the folder.

"So she's fine now?" He asked. From what he could see Sophie had been admitted with extremely high blood pressure and heart-rate, erratic breathing, confusion, vomiting, possible hallucinations and had had a series of absence seizures. Then quite suddenly everything had returned to normal perimeters.

"Yes she's doing really well now. About three hours ago everything was suddenly normal."

"Does she know about her Mum?"

"Yes. Social Services asked her teacher to come in and they explained together. To be honest though, she's more distressed about the rat."

"The rat?" Sherlock cut in.

"Yes she had a pet rat with her that had died. It was quite hard to get it off her when she was ill."

"And she's bothered that the rat died and not the Mum."

"No, she's upset about her Mum, but keeps talking about the rat. Children do that sometimes; when something feels too big to talk about they focus on the smaller things."

"How did it die?"

"The rat?"

"Yes, how did the rat die?"

Laura stared at him. "It was a rat! How on earth would I know?"

Sherlock tutted. "Never mind. Where's the body? Fetch it for me."

Laura was visibly confused. "You want the body of the rat?"

Sherlock gave he a withering look. "You don't seem to understand that a crime has been committed. The child's rat is evidence. Get it for me. Please."

"We threw it away. It didn't seem right to have a dead rat on a Children's Ward."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Fine – which bin?"

She glanced at John. "The human waste bin but they're emptied three times a day."

"It's fine." John assured her. "Thank you for your help."

"It's NOT fine!" Sherlock roared. "She's destroyed evidence! That in itself is a crime!"

"Sherlock, be quiet!" John hissed at him. "Remember where you are."

Sherlock looked round. Several faces had appeared at doors to watch this altercation. He turned back to Laura.

"I apologise for alarming you. Thank you for the information; it's been helpful to me."

Laura looked at him. "Look, I couldn't say for sure but when we got it off her, she'd squeezed it really hard. It looked misshapen. I don't know if it was dead before that or not."

Sherlock considered this then nodded. "Thank you."

* * *

Back in the lift and further up to the Psychiatric Ward. Before swiping them onto the ward John turned to face Sherlock.

"I think, if possible you should try hard not to talk in here."

"Why?"

"Well for one thing I don't want you to upset every person I have to work with, but also because you're _you_… and they're _psychiatrists._"

Sherlock frowned but didn't protest.

They found another nurses station this time with familiar faces but no-one that John actually knew. He introduced himself and explained what he needed.

A nurse was happy to hand over the relevant files, yawning as she did so.

"Sorry! Late night."

"Yes…" started Sherlock. "You were…" He was cut off. John, without looking from the notes had stepped backwards, hard onto his foot. Sherlock simply smiled at the nurse.

"Thank you," John said, handing the files back. "Come along, Sherlock."

Outside the ward Sherlock turned on him.

"That was it?"

"Yes." John smiled. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"What? You think you've done something clever. What was it?"

"Nothing, and no I don't. We've just learned all we can from there; both men showed the same symptoms as Sophie. Both of them miraculously recovered in the same way. Being on the Psych ward they've been sedated up to the eyeballs and will be out cold for at least 12 hours. The husband's being treated for depression and the brother's an alcoholic. There's been a shift change since they came in so no-one seen anything apart from them sleeping and there are notes to admit no-one until the police have taken statements which is scheduled for tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled at him. "You know, you're not without deductive powers of your own."

"Well obviously, Sherlock. I'm a _doctor_." But he still smiled at the compliment. "Where now?"

"The house, assuming that Anderson hasn't already destroyed everything of value."

"OK, give me 10 minutes to change out of the scrubs."

"Can't you do that in the cab?"

"No, 'cos I'm not six. I need to get some food too."

"Food slows me down."

"Food makes me live." He grinned happily. He was really enjoying this.


	7. Evidence

25 minutes later and John was no longer enjoying himself. He was standing in the rain watching Anderson who seemed to be trying to obliterate Sherlock with his mind.

"So it's true then. You're not dead." He couldn't have sounded more disappointed.

"No." Sherlock let him stare for a while. "I see your wife's finally left you."

Anderson's pale face paled further and John could have sworn his nose grew more pointed. He was also secretly impressed that Anderson didn't hit Sherlock for that.

"There's nothing for you here." Anderson sneered. "We've got all the evidence bagged and it's on its way to the Yard."

"Good, you won't mind me taking a look then will you." Sherlock smiled and stepped round him as if he was a minor annoyance. He went into the house and John followed him into the lounge. It was a good size and led straight into the dining room which was also large. The family appeared to be comfortably off. If pushed to describe the décor, John would probably come out with terms such as 'tasteful' and 'normal'.

"Stay there." Sherlock commanded when he was just beyond the threshold. John stood still while Sherlock paced the room looking wildly up and down until he had scanned the lot. He then marched through to the dining room to study the table and several overturned chairs. There was a broken window pane in the French doors.

John watched him, marvelling to himself. He heard a sharp gasp behind him and turned to see Sally Donovan staring at Sherlock.

"Surprised to see me?" Sherlock asked without turning round.

She was, but she covered it well. "No, you never struck me as one who'd stay dead." She watched him for a while. "Lestrade says you can look at anything you want. It's mostly gone to the Yard though. We didn't wait for you."

Sherlock looked at John reproachfully. "See what happens when you make me wait?"

Donovan smirked at John. "You were getting a nick-name in the force you know, before he died."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We called you the Pup."

"Mm."

"As in, 'Sherlock and his pup'."

"Yeah, I got that, thanks." He rocked on his feet slightly but didn't rise to it.

Sherlock came back into the lounge and sat down in an armchair by the fire.

"That was where the body was." Donovan told him.

"I know." He stretched his legs out and stared thoughtfully at the fire resting his chin on his joined hands. John watched in silence, not moving from his designated spot. Five minutes went by.

"Freak." Donovan murmured quietly. She shook her head and wandered off.

Sherlock suddenly launched himself to his hands and knees and thrust his head into the fireplace.

"Sherlock, are you OK?" John asked, concerned.

"Yes. What do you think this is?" His eyes were just inches from the grate.

"Ash?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "Do you really think I don't know ash when I see it? That's ash there." He pointed to some grey-white powder towards the back of the grate. "From a Benson and Hedges low tar cigarette if I'm not mistaken. And I'm not. But what I'm interested in is this." He pointed at what looked to be a dark red-black stain on the metal. John squatted beside him and looking closely he could see that it wasn't rust which would have been his next guess.

Sherlock pulled the front plate away and gently lifted the grate to one side. On the concrete floor there were traces of ash, a cigarette butt and a dusting of red powder. The two of them leaned in for a closer look.

"Have you got an evidence bag?" Sherlock asked.

"Er, no."

"Donovan!" Sherlock bellowed making John jump. She was there instantly.

"I need an evidence bag." He told her. She rolled her eyes but produced one. Sherlock carefully swept the traces of dust into the bag and slipped it in his pocket. "I'll have a look at it later; I left you some too. You might want to take that cigarette butt as well. It was the brother's but you'll want the DNA for the trial."

He swept out of the room and John trotted to keep up with him.

"It was the brother then?"

Sherlock turned and looked at him. He didn't say anything but a ghost of a smile played over his face.

He went into the kitchen but was out again before John could follow. He also stepped into the study and emerged as quickly muttering "so that's where he slept." John stuck his head in the door and sure enough there was a camp bed made up and slept in. He came out to see Sherlock bolting up the stairs. He followed him, getting breathless. Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs.

"The girl stood here with the rat."

John looked at a perfectly innocuous patch of carpet.

"The child-minder said she found her in her room."

"Yes," said Sherlock grinning. "Now why would she say that?"

Then he was off again into what John assumed was the master bedroom. And straight out again. "Nothing here."

He stopped at the middle door.

"Aha! Sophie's room, complete with rat cage, right by the door." He rushed out and straight into John. Without apologising he opened the bathroom door then darted on.

"And the baby at the back. Of course."

John leant against the wall. "Sherlock, please slow down. I'm getting dizzy."

In an instant Sherlock was in front of him looking concerned.

"You're dizzy? Let's go outside. Do you need to sit down?" He took him by the arm.

John laughed. "No I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm feeling fine; I just wish you'd slow down a bit."

Sherlock stood back.

"Are you sure?"

John smiled at the concern.

"I think you might be losing your mind but other than that, I'm fine."

Sherlock smiled back. "Well, I'm done here anyway. Let's head out. Fresh air is a wonderful thing at times." And he was gone.

* * *

They walked past the police cordon and along the road a while. Sherlock was texting so John waited until he'd finished.

"So what was that all about?"

"Mm?"

"You, suddenly getting all maternal on me. It was weird."

"Well, four people were poisoned in that house. From their various locations it's clear that the poison was airborne; there's no other way it could have affected all four of them. Under those circumstances it seems reasonable to take precautions when a fifth person in the house may be showing symptoms."

"You think the poison was the stuff in the fireplace?"

"Not sure, but at the moment it's my favoured hypothesis. Certainly it makes sense that it started there. Annie Tregennis was on the chair closest to it. The two men were in the back of the room. When they fought and broke the window, they'd have the benefit of fresh air coming in. The next victim was the rat. It was in the middle room with the door closest to the top of the stairs. Its cage was by the door and as a smaller being with a faster metabolism it succumbed quickly. Then Sophie picked it up and brought it to the stairwell to show her parents but at the top of the stairs was struck by the poison there. The baby in the back room wasn't affected at all. Both the girls had their bedroom windows open."

"You got all that quickly."

"Why stay longer than strictly necessary in a poisoned house?"

"Anderson's been in there all day and he didn't seem poisoned."

"Didn't he?"

John smirked. "So who would want to poison the whole family?"

"That's the wrong question."

"So what's the right question?"

"Come on, John; think about it!"

"I am!" But he knew he wasn't. All he could think do was wonder who would want to poison the family, and that wasn't the right question. Apparently.

"Sherlock's phone beeped and Sherlock glanced at it. He showed it to John.

'Babysitter staying with victim's sister; 121 Trafalgar Mansions. Herne Hill. Lestrade.'

"The _babysitter_ did it?" John asked, incredulous.

"No, of course not." Sherlock snapped impatiently. "She's just the next person we need to see. Come along; we're against the clock with this one."

"Someone else is going to die?"

"No, but your next shift starts in 13 and a half hours. I'm not going to wait for you again."


	8. The childminder's story

Two hundred and twelve Trafalgar Mansions was a two bedroom flat in an modern tower block. There was some difficulty getting in.

"Look, we've spoken to the police and it's Martha's bedtime. It's been a really long day; can't this wait?"

John guessed, rightly, that this was the sister. She had similar looks to Annie. The babysitter was lingering behind, red eyed and silent. He could feel Sherlock getting tense beside him.

"Of course." John said soothingly. "We're not the police but we're working with them. You don't have to talk to us at all, but we'd like to find out how your sister died. Of course you need to settle Martha. I hope Sophie can come home soon too. She must miss her." He smiled gently at the child.

The resolve weakened. "I'd like to be able to help you if we can." She whispered, her eyes filling.

"John produced a travel pack of tissues and handed them to her. And they were in.

* * *

The sister's name was Helen. She introduced Bridget, a friend she'd met at college and whom she'd recommended to the Tregennis family six years ago.

Bridget told her story exactly as they'd heard it from the police. Helen looked away. Despite her earlier protests she'd kept Martha with them, holding her closely long after the child had fallen asleep. When Bridget recounted the part where she'd found Sophie in her bed John glanced at Sherlock, but he didn't contradict her. He kept his eyes focussed on her.

"It must have been very hard for you; particularly when things had been so much better of late."

John noticed Helen gasp, but Bridget didn't. She just nodded.

"We thought we'd seen the end of this months ago."

"In January, when he started taking the anti-depressants."

Bridget glanced at Helen.

"We thought he might be taking something. Annie never told us. Things at home seemed to get worse when we talked to her about it, so we stopped. I was glad Bridget was there so much though."

"She hid a lot from you didn't she?"

"Yes," Bridget responded, "but we knew what Andrew was doing to her. It wasn't all the time and he started out so differently. When Sophie was first born he was devoted to them both, but he started to get stressed and then he'd get angry. I think Annie always hoped that he'd get better. He seemed to have done too."

"He had got better." Helen said softly. "I can't believe this happened. I thought he was safe now."

"This wasn't your fault." John told her. It was an automatic response, but it was heartfelt. "You couldn't have prevented this."

"When did your brother come home?" Sherlock cut in, impatient.

"Stuart?" Helen frowned. "A couple of weeks ago I think. Maybe a bit more."

"And he's been staying with Annie since then?"

"Yes. She asked if he could come here and I told her yes but he wouldn't come."

"Why did she want him to?"

"He was fighting with Andrew and Andrew was getting more stressed. God I wish I'd have pushed him more to come." More tears.

"Er, not your fault." Sherlock said quickly. It was neither automatic, nor heartfelt. "Why didn't you get on with him?"

"I don't know. Well, he was the baby I suppose, Annie used to look after him the way Mum did. I was in the middle and I resented it all a bit. He was a bully though. I didn't like how he borrowed so much money from Mum before she died either." She stopped herself. "I wouldn't wish this on him though."

Sherlock sat back and rested his head on his joined hands. He was completely still again, despite the obvious distress of Helen and the confusion of Bridget. Eventually John cleared his throat. Sherlock eyes were instantly upon him and he seemed to remember where he was. He sat up.

"I just have two more questions, if you'd be so kind."

The women looked at him expectantly.

"Your brother was in the Democratic Republic of Congo studying Botany. Why did he come home?"

Helen stared at him. "I don't know." She told him. "He told Annie he'd found something that his supervisor wanted to steal but I don't think either of us believed him."

"His supervisor's name?"

"I don't know, but they were both funded out of Imperial."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you." He turned towards Bridget.

"Finally, why did you walk past Sophie when you saw her at the top of the stairs?"

Bridget frowned. "I didn't! She was in her room!"

"I know that she wasn't." Sherlock wasn't threatening, he was quiet but he was commanding.

Bridget was crying too now. "No, I would never do that! Not to Sophie. Not to any child that needed help! I wouldn't! I don't know... I couldn't have!"

Sherlock looked at John. He clearly wanted to leave now but couldn't think of how to get out. John leant forward to the women.

"It's OK, it's all right." He told them calmly. "My colleague must have been mistaken, that's all. Thank you, so much for your help."

They let themselves out.

* * *

They were some distance from the flat, walking in the mild drizzle towards the high street. Sherlock seemed deep in thought.

"I think Bridget was poisoned too!" John suddenly blurted out.

Sherlock stopped dead and stared at him. "I know she was, but why do you think so?"

"I don't think you were mistaken; if you say she walked past the child at the top of the stairs, then that's what happened." He noticed an almost imperceptible look of pride spread across Sherlock's face. "Arrogant sod" he thought fondly before he continued aloud. "The thing is I also believe her when she says she wouldn't do that. The thought of it was too distressing to her. So I think she did it, but she wasn't in her right mind. I think that's what the poison does; you do things that you wouldn't usually do. The husband, Andrew, had almost torn his own face off by the time we'd calmed him down. "

Sherlock smiled at him. "Well done, John. Really, very well done!"

John, despite himself, glowed.

They turned and continued on their way.

"What about the rest of it?" Sherlock asked him. "Do you know the right question yet?"

"No." John admitted. "Nor how you knew about the family dynamic or the Congo, or the botany, or any of it really."

Sherlock gave him a half smile.

"But I got that the baby-sitter was poisoned!" John reminded him.

"Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"I knew as soon as I saw the hall carpet. Someone small and light had stood there and wet themselves; a child then. They were holding something that came from a cage with sawdust; so the rat. Now a small damp child would be nothing to worry a good and experienced child-minder, and we know from six years with the same family that Bridget was both good and experienced. So why would she run past a sick child?"

"She was poisoned."

"Yes I know! Test the theory!" He commanded.

"Er, she could hear the baby crying and needed to get to her?"

"No. Babies cry. This one was in its cot so we can assume she was safe, it was therefore a lower priority than the sick one. Even if not, she could have carried the older one to the younger one. She didn't; she left her."

"She thought the child was already dead?"

"She was stood unsupported clutching a dead rat. Unusual behaviour for a corpse, I think."

"Shock makes people do funny things."

"Yes but they usually have some recollection. She genuinely couldn't remember the incident. She's had to piece it together based on her usual behaviour. Yes, I'm fully sure that Bridget was affected too, though to a lesser degree than the others. This adds to our case about the airborne toxin. I'd also suggest that whatever it is can be activated and dissipated in a very short time-frame. It was concentrated in the front room at 6:30 and strong enough to kill an adult female. At 8:00 it was only strong enough to give a mild dose to the child-minder; she was affected mentally but not physically. As far as we know, the ambulance crew who arrived around 8:15 weren't affected at all and Anderson got off scot-free."

He stopped and hailed a passing cab. They settled themselves in it.

"What about the rest of it?" John pressed him.

"Simple really. In the family photos there were several with Annie with either her brother or sister. None of them all together; even the wedding photo showed them at different sides of the bride and groom. So three siblings, two of which didn't get on. There was a photo of him receiving his doctorate, so he was an academic and Annie was proud. The camp bed in the study wasn't a comfortable affair, so why put himself through it for so long? Because he had no-where else in the UK to stay, so he'd been abroad a while. He'd got books stacked up, predominantly on Botany, his subject. His own name was co-author on one on Central African plants so he was doing well until he suddenly had to come home. To be honest though, John, you were a long way ahead of me with this one; you suspected the brother as soon as you saw the mark on Annie Tregennis' neck.

John allowed himself to swell with pride.

"The difference is that at the time it was an unsubstantiated guess whereas I didn't eliminate anyone until I knew for sure. My way's better for convictions. The botany, the Congo, his bad temper, his violent nature. It all begins to build up."

John deflated again.

Sherlock smiled at him. "But you're there now, aren't you. With the question?"

John thought. "Why did he want to kill Annie?"

Sherlock groaned. "No, John! You show such promise and then you come out with that!"

John turned to look out of the window. He wanted to sulk but he could see Sherlock's reflection looking at him expectantly. He tried again.

"He didn't want to kill Annie. He didn't love her. Well, not properly anyhow, but she was useful to him so he used her. She'd put up with him when no-one else would. To him, she's better alive than dead." The reflection was staring at him. He could almost feel Sherlock willing him to get this. "So" he said slowly and quietly, "who was Stuart trying to kill?"

Sherlock broke into a broad grin.

"I knew you'd get there." He said, sitting back.

"Eventually." John added, smiling.


	9. Experiments

John was yawning shamelessly by the time they got back to Baker Street. Sherlock, however, was as energised as he always was when he was on a case. He bounded up the stairs and straight into the kitchen.

"John!" he yelled thunderously coming straight out again.

"What now?"

"What have you done with my microscope?"

"Oh." John looked slightly startled. "Well, I took it back to Bart's."

Sherlock glared. "Any other of possessions of mine you took it upon yourself to give away?"

"You were dead!"

"I was not dead!"

"You _pretended_ to be dead. Was I supposed to keep the keep the flat as some sort of shrine?"

Sherlock turned and stormed through into the lounge. He threw himself dramatically onto the sofa, then picked up the small bag full of powder and peered at it closely. He threw it down again.

"Might as well be cinnamon."

"Why don't you go to the lab at Bart's?" John asked him, quite reasonably.

"No-one would let me in at this time." He snapped, sulkily.

"You could borrow my pass."

Silence.

John sighed again. "I'm starving. Do you want some toast?"

Silence.

"Fine." John muttered and went into the kitchen. Spent a moment looking for bread and then checking it wasn't already mouldy, and put it into the toaster.

He stared at the glowing red element.

"Too slow!" he muttered and shoved the toaster hard across the kitchen in frustration. He stared at the glass partition doors leading through to the lounge.

_The doors were dark and shadowy. He knew they covered the evil beyond but they were thin, fragile, breakable. They wouldn't hold for long. It was coming at him already. Dark vaporous swirls were reaching round the hinges, reaching towards him, trying to get to his heart. The glass suddenly shattered and the darkness swept in. He backed across the room but it was soon wrapping itself around him, squeezing the life from him. He couldn't move._

There was the sound of a cry from the lounge. John quickly opened the doors and pushed through. For some reason his leg was bothering him again and he felt stiff and old. He looked towards Sherlock and was horrified by what he saw. The detective was sitting where he'd left him, but his face and his limbs were tense and twisted. His mouth was open as if he was screaming but he was hardly breathing. His eyes were wide and unfocussed. John could see his jugular raised and taut, his pulse beating rapidly.

There was a crucible of glowing embers on the table in front of him.

John lurched across the room, focusing on the crucible. Somehow he got to it and picked it up ignoring the heat. Holding his breath he staggered back into the kitchen and flung it into the sink and turned the tap on. He leant on the wall for a while trying to force himself to think. Windows. He went back into the lounge and threw wide open the huge sash windows. He looked back at Sherlock.

'_This is his fault. He did this to you. He caused this fear, this anger'. He slapped him hard across the face._

"Think!" John yelled the word aloud, hoping it would help him focus.

He looked across at the detective. He needed to sedate him, he finally decided and he grabbed his bag. He started throwing the things from it wildly until he forced himself to focus again. Scrabbling through the medical supplies on the floor he found a pre-prepared syringe of Diazepam and tore it open. Deciding his hands weren't steady enough to find a vein, he stabbed it into Sherlock's left thigh muscle. "That will have to do." He thought before sagging down to the floor.

_'He did this. He did this because he doesn't care. He doesn't care. How dare he!' He grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard. 'How dare he! The evil, arrogant bastard!' He punched him over and over. He didn't know what he was screaming but he still screamed. Over and over he struck him._

_He threw him down and turned away._

_He turned and watched the man shaking and sobbing. 'How dare he! How dare he cry!' _

_He picked up a skull from the mantelpiece and threw it hard at him. It smashed on the wall above the sofa. He started grabbing books from the shelves and throwing them at him too, then just wildly pulled them all down, crashing them to the floor. He swept the things from the table, grabbing some and hurling them wildly. _

_Exhausted he slumped down onto a chair._

_

* * *

_

At some point, John became aware that the sun was rising. He felt stiff and sore and wondered why he'd chosen to sleep on the armchair. He appeared to be surrounded by books and other assorted things. As he pulled himself up a familiar pain shot down his right leg. He limped through to the kitchen and found the tap running. He filled a pint glass with water and gulped it down.

He noticed the crucible in the sink and traces of red powder. He looked at them and frowned, trying to remember something but he couldn't remember what.

He went back through to the lounge and frowned again at the mess. Sherlock was sleeping on the sofa, curled up with his back to the room. John sat down on the coffee table to wake Sherlock and demand an explanation. He pulled his friend round to face him and then gasped in shock.

"Christ!"

Sherlock's face was a swollen bloody mess. What alarmed him more was Sherlock's eyes which were open wide and unfocused. He appeared to be crying, occasionally swiping tears from his face. His grey shirt sleeves, covered with blood and snot made him believe he had been doing so for some time.

"Christ!" John said again.

He noticed a syringe still stuck into Sherlock's thigh and very gently he removed it. Diazepam. He knew it was his. He shouldn't have it in his bag; it wasn't standard to carry around but he'd signed for it ages ago and kept it. He breathed deeply. He found Sherlock's pulse and was relieved that though it seemed fast, it wasn't dangerously so. He suddenly noticed he was bleeding himself from a split knuckle and his hands were bruised and red.

"Shit."

He went back into the kitchen, soaked a tea-towel in water and took it in to start cleaning Sherlock's face.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was thick and deep, barely above a whisper. "I thought you were dead. He wouldn't let me see you. I went to Bart's. Mycroft was angry." He leant back and shut his eyes, swallowing hard.

John was speechless for a while.

Suddenly, the incongruous sound of hiss mobile alarm went off. John sat up and shook his head, trying to get his brain to start working. He remembered his shift. Shit. He located his phone under a mound of books and took it through to the hall where he called the hospital and told him he couldn't make it in. Struggling to find a decent excuse he just told them he was ill and decided he'd deal with the repercussions later.

When he got back into the lounge he found Sherlock more alert and focused and pulling himself up to sitting. John went and got him some water which Sherlock took from him automatically.

"What the Hell happened to the flat?" he asked. His voice was already quite clear and calm.

"Um. I think it might have been me." John told him. He held up his hands to show him.

Sherlock stared at him a moment. He started to drink then realised his upper lip was split and swollen.

"What happened to my face?"

"Yeah. That was probably me too." John bit his lip and looked away.

Sherlock drank, then got up and walked carefully to the now broken mirror to examine his injuries. He felt his ribs gingerly.

"Well, you were certainly thorough." He commented. He glanced at John's reflection.

John was trying not to look at him. He couldn't quite believe he could have done something so destructive and violent. Sherlock could see that he was utterly ashamed.

He turned to look at him directly.

"John, to have experimented on myself with something like this was foolhardy in the extreme. To have exposed a friend to it was unforgivable. I am really very sorry."

John stared at him. "You know I consider it a privilege to help you, don't you?"

Sherlock considered, then nodded quickly and turned back to the mirror. His good humour was returning.

"To experiment when I know said friend has a mean left hook suggests stupidity on a level I didn't think I had." He grinned at John. It was a question, so John grinned back.

"All your stuff..." he started.

"They're just possessions." He sounded quite philosophical but he was rubbing the back of his head. John knew he was stressed and felt ashamed again. Sherlock suddenly looked up in a panic. "Where's my violin?"

"Packed up in your room, last I saw it."

Sherlock breathed again. "Thank God."

"Not just a possession?"

"It was my father's. Mycroft has most of the rest but the violin was given to me."

He noticed John staring at him.

"What?"

"I was just wondering what else to ask you while you're being so loquacious."

Sherlock smiled again then winced. "Come on, let's take the rest of that stuff to the Yard and be done with this once and for all."

"Can I shower first?"

"I would strongly recommend it."


	10. Explinations

They were quiet in the cab. Sherlock's phone had been destroyed so he'd borrowed John's and was looking things up. John didn't much feel like talking anyhow. When they arrived at Scotland Yard people were just beginning to start their days. It felt quiet but jovial.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!" DI Dimmock was dashing across the office to see him. He had a beaming grin on his face which began to fade as he took in Sherlock's face.

"What happened to you?"

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. "John assaulted me. I'm here to press charges."

Dimmock faltered and looked from one man to the other. He seemed to decide that Sherlock must be joking.

"Well, I'm glad you're not dead anyhow."

"Yes. As am I. Is Lestrade in?"

"You can go straight in. He expected you'd want to go to get the statements on the Tregennis case."

"That won't be necessary." He told him as he swept of across the office.

"Christ, what happened to you?" Was the predictable question from Lestrade.

"John assaulted me and I'm here to press charges." Sherlock said again.

"No, really; what happened?"

"Why does nobody believe me?" Sherlock whined.

"Well because you're a prat." Lestrade gestured towards John. "And he's not."

Sherlock pouted but finding that hurt he stopped.

"I take it you want in on the Tregennis interviews?" Lestrade asked him.

"No I don't, but I have information that might aid you with your enquiries. I also have the cause of death." He tossed down the small bag of red powder. Lestrade went to take it.

"Be _very_ careful handling that bag and its contents." Sherlock commanded. "It's extremely potent."

Lestrade withdrew his hand.

"OK." He told him. "Go ahead."

Sherlock gathered his thoughts.

"In the Democratic Republic of Congo there is a jungle tribe of Pygmies called the Batama. They have an interesting coming of age ceremony for their boys. The child is required to take a small amount of a compound that contains a powder sourced from the Red Cedar tree into the jungle where they live. They build a small shelter and then they burn the powder and inhale the fumes. The powder contains a toxin. Physically, the boy is put under extreme stress. Mentally the boy is subject to strange fear inducing hallucinations. Not all the boys return but the ones that do are from then on considered brave and strong men. The sick and weak are weeded out and the rest are considered able to face anything that adult life might bring them.

"Last year, Professor Derek Grantham of Imperial College, London, was awarded a grant to go to the Congo and study the indigenous trees. He took with him a Research Fellow called Dr. Stuart Sanderson. While the pair were away they learned of this toxin and contrived to make a compound similar to the one used by the Batama. I cannot say for sure whether Professor Grantham decided to test the compound on himself, or whether he was dosed unknowingly..."

"Hold on," Lestrade cut in, "who on Earth would experiment with something they know kills people."

Sherlock looked at him. His eye's glinted.

"People do similar things in London every day with drugs that are easy to source. Like I say, I can't piece together what happened to Professor Grantham; his death was investigated in the DRC but was unexplained. Shortly after his death, Stuart Sanderson abandoned his research and returned to London carrying a small amount of the substance they'd discovered."

"How did he get it through customs?"

"I don't know, but it gives me hope that only a very small quantity arrived in this country. I would, however, recommend that the rest of his possessions are thoroughly searched.

"On his return he arranged to stay with his sister, Annie Tregennis. In the past she had always been a source of help for him so it was natural that he should go there. Things had changed, however, since his departure. The biggest change was that Annie's husband was no longer beating her. While he had been, Annie would turn to Stuart for support. His own misdemeanours were overlooked. In this new situation, Annie's priority was to her husband who was trying to mend his ways so Stuart no longer had carte blanche. In fact the tension between Stuart and Andrew was bad enough for Annie to ask her brother to leave.

"The solution, as far as Stuart was concerned, was clear. He needed to remove this rival from his sister's life. He conveniently had an amount of a poison never before seen in Britain. He knew it took effect swiftly and was lethal.

"The logical time for him to carry out is plan was in the morning as Andrew was in the habit of rising early for work. You'll note that the travel alarm clock in his room was set to go off at 5.45 on the day of the murder. I'd be surprised if he had any early appointments. He got up, ignited the powder in the fireplace of the lounge and returned to bed.

"Stuart's plan fell apart because in his eagerness he failed to recognise that routines change; they especially do so when people are stressed because of an unwanted house-guest. Annie Tregennis rose early and came downstairs. She was completely overcome with the poison and it would appear she died quite swiftly. Andrew Tregennis rose later, and finally Stuart himself went into the lounge. The two men fought in the dining area and smashed a window. Sophie then woke, possibly because of the commotion downstairs and noticed her pet rat was ill. It was natural for her to take it to her parents but before she could come downstairs she was also subject to the poison. It caused her to stay motionless. She was probably terrified."

Sherlock was quiet a moment. The other two waited.

"The other mistake Stuart had made," Sherlock went on, "was that he failed to correctly judge the potency of the poison. I very much doubt he expected anyone other than Andrew to be affected. He certainly didn't intend to poison himself. It was, however, far stronger than he bargained for. It's far stronger than anything else I have personally experienced."

"That was quite a spectacular misjudgement." Lestrade commented. "Wait, when you say experienced..."

"That is my theory," Sherlock cut him off. "I'm confident it will be borne out by the evidence. Whoever examines the poison will need to exercise extreme caution, but I'm sure it will tie in with Molly's toxicology report from the autopsy. I'm sure the brother's statement will be illuminating, but I think I personally will give this one a miss. I've had a somewhat draining night."

Lestrade looked at him and nodded. He used a pen to pull the powder over to himself and he looked at it in a wary fashion, as if it might leap up and choke him.

"I wonder why it didn't kill the two men as well?" He asked.

"There were other factors." Put in John. "The husband was taking a prescription drug called Dosulepin. It's an anti-depressant but it's used as a sedative and it would appear that sedation helps cushion against the effects of the drug. The brother had a high blood alcohol level when he was admitted to hospital; another sedative. I'd guess that a sedative is mixed in with it by the Batama for their ceremony. Despite this, both of the men were gravely ill for a while. They were lucky. The children were exposed later and to a much lower dose but Sophie Tregennis was also in a critical condition for a while. Annie had no protection and took the full dose. It appears to have killed her fairly instantly."

The three men stared at the bag of powder for a while.

"What extraordinary stuff." Lestrade commented.

"Mm." Sherlock responded. "It really is quite... magnificent."


	11. Epilogue

Sherlock and John emerged from Scotland Yard into the early Autumn sunshine.

"So, when did you come up with all that about the sedatives?" Sherlock asked.

"Last night. Or possibly this morning. It makes sense anyhow."

"Mm. I appear to have a puncture mark in my thigh. It's bruised awfully; whoever did it must be spectacularly ham-fisted."

John smirked. "Well, you had poisoned me. I'm not sure you were worthy of a better bedside manner to be honest."

"Yes. Well, thank you anyway."

"I wonder how I survived." John thought aloud. "I hadn't been drunk and hadn't taken any sedatives that I'm aware of."

"Perhaps the Batama tribe would consider you a strong and brave man?"

John thought about that for a moment.

"We'd better go back and sort the flat out. Mrs Hudson will go mental if she sees it and I'm not strong or brave enough for that."

"Mm." The prospect didn't appeal to either of them.

"Shall we get breakfast first? I probably owe you, after the poisoning thing."

"Better had. I think I might have broken the toaster a bit."

"Ah, I'm sure the toaster had it coming."

They headed off.

* * *

**Notes on the text.**

**There is no such tribe as the Batama in The Democratic Republic of Congo. I made the name up from a list of similar sounding real ones, and I know nothing at all about the customs of any of these tribes; this is entirely fictional. The Red Cedar is indigenous to that region but again, I have no idea about its properties. **

**The idea for the story, particularly the poisonous powder and the post-poison conversation, came from the Arthur Conan Doyle short story **_**The Adventure of the Devil's Foot**_** which can be found in **_**His Last Bow.**_** It's well worth a read.**

**The characters of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al in this depiction belong to the BBC. They are based on the work of Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't own them and have not written this story for financial gain.**

**I've had a great time writing this – I really hope that people have enjoyed reading it too. Thanks again for the reviews, particularly those with hints, tips and suggestions (and those with general praise; that was very nice and quite unexpected). I'm now going to watch my new series DVD and revel in the unseen pilot.**

**LP  
**


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